Diary of Lily Evans: Official New Yorker
by GiantPurpleRing
Summary: Lily and her best friends are selected in their seventh years to study abraud in New York City! They are thrilled...except for the bit about the others chosen to go. Severus Snape, for instance. And Frank Longbotton Alice's crush. And the Marauders...


**July 12th…morningish? Can't get up to check, as legs have turned to Jelly**

Oh. My. Goodness.

Ohmigoodness. I am Head Girl.

I am well aware of the amount of times I've made fun of Petunia for writing in that furry purple little diary she had when we were 13, but these are exceptional times. I mean….

_I am Head Girl!_

Lily Evans, Head Girl. Such a lovely ring to it, don't you think? And with this under my belt, there's no _way _I won't become an auror, so long as my grades remain at the level they've been at since third year. Ten OWLs, by the way, pretty damn brilliant if they weren't over-shadowed by my recently elevated status as the HEAD GIRL OF HOGWARTS. I am so exited right now. Cannot verbalize.

Not that I wouldn't, you know, at least _attempt _to verbalize it, were it not for the fact that my well-meaning and ignorant muggle parents don't have the slightest clue what a Head Girl is, does, or signifies, and my ill-meaning and ignorant muggle sister would be sent into the kind of hysterics any five year old would envy at the mere _mention _of my kind of people. I love them, and all—or at least the two formers—but they are just not able to produce the kind of ecstasy on my behalf that I am craving right now. And my owl, Lucy, was apparently gruesomely murdered during her search for breakfast this morning, so until the idiot bird miraculously recovers and finds her way back home I am unable tell my friends.

So you see, I have no choice but to write it all down _without _the intent of cramming it into an envelope and shipping it off to be read by some other mad witch or wizard. Nope. I'll write it down, shut it tight, and pack it up, never to see daylight again save for those occasional occasions in my elderly-hood when my children refuse to visit me and my rich and handsome husband has died that I feel the need to reminisce on those awkward teenage years I've tried so hard to forget.

I, Lily Evans, am the Head Girl.

A bit redundant I know, but I just keep hearing it my head, over and over again like those mantras people in cults are always chanting to give them that creepily zen-like demeanor that puts everyone around them off but seems to make the members themselves quite happy.

Lily Evans. Head Girl.

Yay.

I've worked _so _hard for this. You don't have even the slightest idea of the kind of people I was going up against, here. My year is one of _those _years. I swear, sometimes I really do feel like in 1959 all of the most intellectual, creative, and hardworking people in England, magical or no, suddenly got this switch flipped in their brains that caused them to shag and procreate with each other. Because really, that's the kind of people I have in my year. Even by Hogwarts standards, _nobody _is normal. If you are in my year, God gave you brains and talents and usually looks to boot—and you know damn well how to use them. And then there's _me, _this confused little carrot topped muggle-born who keeps her head down with only the goal of at least _appearing _to know what she is doing, and_ I_ get it the highest honor in our school. A _miracle _happened today, and I can't even bloody tell anyone about it!

Tis heartbreaking.

But again, who in Merlins' Globe am I going to tell? Nobody _cares. _My best friends probably won't even care. They'll each just roll their eyes and make some snarky comment about how stupid I am for ever thinking I _wasn't _going to get it, and then go back to their prattling about some boy they snogged or whatever eventful thing it was that happened to them this summer. The only people in the whole wide world who care are the other girls in my year to which this honor actually mattered, and I can hardly expect praise from _them_, seeing as they are probably going to hate me now. And there were only like two of them, anyway, Kate Legget and Hannah Thornby.

Kate's cool, and I shall miss her when she hates me.

Hannah isn't, so I won't. Plus she hated me to begin with, so it isn't as if things will have changed.

But _I _care. _I _care that patrol duties have been properly executed, and that alcohol isn't smuggled into the school from Hogesmeade—unless, you know, Gryffindor won a Quidditch game or something, in which case BRING IT ON—and that last year a certain house which shall remain unnamed won over another certain house which shall remain unnamed for points in our school purely because of all the times one of those unnamed house members got points docked from them for defending the poor first year bullied to tears by a member of the other unnamed house, who _didn't _get points docked from them because by the time an authority figure arrived they were being beaten to a pulp by the defender who would then get _more _points docked!

These things matter. These things are important_. _

And _I _was chosen to oversee them all!

Well, me and the Head Boy, who I didn't think to look for in the little newsletter Lucy dropped at my feet before being swallowed by a whale. Should probably do that. The jelly-legged problem has subsided for the most part, I'm sure I'll be able to get up and find the letter….Hang on a sec.

… Well then. It all makes sense now.

It wasn't a miracle. It was Karma.

I _knew _I shouldn't have stolen that piece of candy from Rebecca's bag in the third grade. It was bound to catch up to me sooner or later….and now it has. Karma with a vengeance, stirred into a fury because I was stupid enough to think I could get away with a lollypop nicking.

Truly, though, it was just a mere _lolly. _ Do I really deserve all of _this_, karma? Do I?

I think not.

It's James. James Potter is Head Boy; James Potter is an arrogant git; James Potter has been making fun of me mercilessly since before I can remember, and Lilly Evans is going to go drown herself in the tub now.

Because really, I think I'd rather die than have to work with him. Looks like this little journal entry is going to be a lot longer than I thought, because its purpose is no longer to amuse my eighty year old self. I don't think I will _ever _be amused by this. But someday, not quite so far off in the future, my previously mentioned rich and handsome husband is going to need a guide for when he has to explain to the kids why mommy is huddled into fetal position on the floor, holding her head in agony and moaning about her emotionally traumatizing youth. Yep. This little writing-of-innermost-thoughts-and-feelings thing could very well turn into a yearlong pastime.

My friends will be thrilled.

.

**August 1st 3pm**

Lucy the owl zombie flew in today, which was a mighty good thing, because I was beginning to suspect that she wouldn't be coming back from the dead after all. In her demented little claws she carried exactly three letters for me, so I suppose that the news got around without my consent.

_Lily,_

_I got a howler from the Marauders just now, shrieking about Head appointments. It's good that they were happy for you and all, but somebody really ought to remind them that the reason howlers are supposed to be sent for negative shouting purposes is because if it isn't opened within seconds of reaching destination, it explodes into a firework of saliva and noise, which the receiver is able to obtain just fine through caring for her one year old triplet sisters. Who were napping just down the hall, frightened awake by the noise, and commenced a screaming that didn't wind down for another hour, by the way._

_I really think I could murder those bastards. Nobody should have the right to be so damned pleased all the time._

_Anyway, it's really brilliant that you got the job. Not the part about you getting it alongside James, obviously, but everything else. You'll be brilliant. And if Potter does manage to kill your buzz, and you find yourself wishing he'd mysteriously disappear, or something, just let me know. I could make it happen._

_Beth_

_._

_My most lovely Lillian,_

_!_

_That is all. More later._

_Love,_

_Alice_

_._

_My most lovely Lillian Part 2,_

_This is so fucking fantastic I can't even think right now. Seriously, my face is going to break from smiling so hard. I'm happy for you! Nothing is going to ruin this year for us, hear me?_

_NOTHING. IN THE WORLD._

_And you mustn't let Potter get to you, darling. He'll be a really good Head Boy; I just know it! Not nearly as good as your Head Girl, of course, but we really can't judge him based on that, can we? Because that'll be impossible! To be better than you at Headship, I mean._

_OH MY GOODNESS I'M SO PROUD OF YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!_

_Can you feel my pride? Radiating, from my fingertips, to the quill, to the parchment, and into your glowing face?_

_Good._

_You're going to be the queen of the school; I just know it!_

_Love,_

_Ali_

Daft, the pair of them. I won't do myself the indignity of replying. James DETESTS Alice. Does she realize that? I swear, her ditziness continues to astound me. How can she be so nice to them after the way they've bullied her? Queen of the school, my arse. I can't even find my lucky socks! Or my thong! How am I supposed to rule the school if the single pair of sexy underwear I possess is lost before I even arrive?

It's an omen.

I think I'll escape to Finland now, while I still have the chance.

.

**August 30th 11am**

Petunia had hidden the thong. And the Socks.

Bitch.

.

**September 1st 8:30pm**

**PRIVATE.**

Hmm. I wonder if maybe writing _private _in big block letters across the first page of this isn't every bit as inviting as if I wrote "THIS BOOK HOLDS KEY TO A TEENAGE GIRL'S SOUL. QUICK, BEGIN SCANNING PAGES FOR USEFUL BITS BEFORE YOU'RE CAUGHT" on it instead. Ah, well. I really can't think of a reason I wouldn't want a random stranger reading this book, anyway. It isn't as if I have any juicy secrets to speak of. I'm quite boring. I'm sure any nosy prat who came across this book would be lulled into a coma by page three, at the very latest.

FOR EXAMPLE: WILL NOW PRATTLE ON ABOUT SEVENTH YEAR PROGRAM.

There are quite a few perks to being old, I've realized. Sure, Hogesmeade isn't quite what it used to be, and even judging by the feast tonight it seems that fifty percent of this year will be spent by my crying over the agonizing workload while the other fifty percent will be spent crying over my last year living with the lovely ladies I call my dorm mates, but it has its privileges.

The first, obviously, is my Head Girlship.

The second is that everyone, having entered their final chance at greatness, seems to have fused together in some sort of cutthroat cult of Gryffindor Greatness, and for the first time is my whole wide memory I witnessed my friend Bethany Lightfoot having a civil conversation with Sirius Black.

Black is known for many, many things, but here I shall refer to him as James Potter's partner in crime, and Beth's relationship with him is remarkably similar to my relationship with James. So you see, it was a bit of a shock to be sitting across from them as they sat, side by side, alternating between stuffing their faces with food and finishing each other sentences like the very best of friends.

In fact, I don't know about Potter, but I felt kind of jealous, just sitting there, eating my potatoes all awkwardly while my best friend had the time of her life with someone I was quite sure I remembered her detesting.

Granted, their conversation was a plotting on how best to wipe out the entire Slytheryn population without ending up in Askaban, but still. A bond forged in the name of hate doesn't make the bond any looser, as far as I know, and I cannot handle battling the Marauders alone.

Because Alice is a marvelous friend and everything, but she really doesn't have the kind of guts required to openly hate a guy like Sirius Black, especially when he's been reducing her to tears since she was eleven years old.

That's the reason Bethany's always such a campaign against him, see. By the time we got to our fifth year Ali just kind blushed and looked down, and last year she learned to just avoid him altogether, but before that, let me tell you, it was _rough._ Sirius is, like, the ultimate catch or something—I wouldn't know, as I'd honestly prefer catching a muddy old boot on my line any day—and Alice has never exactly been puberty's best friend. Sir Jerkface, sitting so innocently across from me, here, found it amusing that she was klutzy, and yet to lose her baby fat.

And, in our fourth year, he also enjoyed drawing attention to that nasty bout of pimples.

But just because she wasn't of the plastic, intellectually subpar group of females that he was used to associating with gave him no right to treat her that way! She was the sweetest thing in the whole wide world, and he had to go and corrupt her with his evil…ness! Now she's all jaded, and quite positive that no man in the world could EVER find her attractive. Which is ridiculous.

I mean…_I_ think it is, anyway. She's got very pretty features. If she'd just grow some confidence and TALK to a boy, I'm sure he'd notice that. But she won't. Even as I'm writing this, she's staring at her plate and piling more food on it than she normally would out of nervousness, eating without even a diary to distract her. Remus is making stabs at conversation, but from what I hear, she isn't being particularly receptive. This is what I hear:

Remus: I can't believe so many Gryffindors were chosen this year! It's unreal. (Akward Pause) I'm really nervous, though; I'm from an all wizarding family and I never took Muggle Studies. (Awkward Pause) Do you think you'll pass?

Ali: (mumble mumble)

Poor Remus. He's a lot nicer than his dunderhead friends, but I don't expect even he will put up with conversation of such poor quality for long. Yep, he's joined the Plot of Slytherin Squashing, which, in the time that my attention swayed from it, acquired Frank, James, and Peter. So now, pretty much everyone but Alice and I are saying hateful things about the snakes.

And really. Who can blame them?

Anyway! Yeah, that whole Beth-Black pairing was merely an example of all the yammering going on between us seventh year Gryffindor in the name of all we'd hoped to accomplish on our own but are now more than willing to work together on. Most of these goals involve beating at least one of the other houses into the filthy, beatle-ridden ground. Usually the green and silver one.

The third, and greatest advantage, is the SEVENTH YEAR PROGRAM, and topic of my writings tonight.

But first: some gloating.

I WON! I FREAKING WON!

Score two for Evans! I'm thinking that I'll actually only write in this when something really brilliant happens to me, yeah? Then when my husband is reading it to the kids as an aid to his explanation of why I've gone round the bend, they can see that I wasn't always such a pathetic lunatic.

Well, I was. But I was a pathetic lunatic that ACOMPLISHED things, and in the end that's all that matters.

Would you like to know what I won, children? Or, since I assume you'll be reading this before my offspring do, eager first year boy?

Fine. Since you begged, I will tell you.

You probably don't know this yet, being a young grasshopper and whatnot, but every year the top eight seventh years in the school are chosen to do a sort of apprenticeship. I think it was originally meant to work like a prefect thing, that the top boy and girl from every house gets it, but –like this year—it doesn't always work out that way. They announce who got it during the Beginning of the Year Feast—yes, you're right, that IS right now, aren't you a genius—and for a month the students pack and organize things and study like mad and if they pass the little exam on muggle life that they take on September 30th, they get to live on their own until the end of the year.

It's like the year abroad thing that some muggle colleges do. We still have to take our NEWTs, and everything, but the materials are sent to us, and we're just trusted to learn it at our own pace. And then, you know, if something traumatic happens or there's some big event, we're summoned back to the school to ride it out. And over holidays we can choose to go home as usual. The seventh years I talked to last year LOVED it. And why wouldn't they? They were left COMPLETELY ALONE. To do WHATEVER THEY WANTED.

How many seventeen year olds get to do that? None! That's how many! But I AM!

Well. Me and Allison, Bethany, James, Sirius, Remus, Severus, and Frank. The first three and the last one thrill me to bits. The four in the middle, not so much. The Marauders and Severus living together cannot have good consequences. But Dumbledore seems to think it'll be okay, and even though he is a mad hatter I trust that if he thought us innocent bystanders would be harmed during some sort of Black vs Snape smack down then he wouldn't allow them both to go.

And, okay, I am sort of proud that it was nearly all Gryffindors this year. We ARE kind of amazing.

Oooh, look! We're getting newsletter thingies!

**Miss Evans**

**Enclosed are the books you will need to study from in preparation for you upcoming exams. Be prepared for extensive questioning on:**

**MM(modern muggle) transportation systems**

**MM home appliances and technologies**

**Basic MM school subjects at a level appropriate for your age (math, history, science, literature)**

**You will be staying at the Waldorf Astoria in New York City from October 1****st**** to December 18****th****. Be ready to board the train leaving Hogwarts by 9 pm on the 30th. Your flight from London leaves at 6 am the following morning. Bring:**

**MM clothing**

**Any magical devices needed for Hogwarts (wand, cauldron, scales, ect)**

**money (wizarding or UK currency brought to Proffessor Flitwick by September 11****th**** will be returned to you in the form of American bills by the 1****st****) **

**Anything else you may have brought to Hogwarts aside from robes, which will not be necessary**

***Animals are NOT permitted on this trip; they may be picked up by your parents on the 30****th****.**

There are six books here. SIX.

Thick ones.

What I am supposed to study from these books _specifically _is not mentioned, so I suppose if I have a prayer of passing the exam I'll have to memorize the whole of all six volumes. Sure, everything else in my brain save for breathing and writing might have to evacuate the premises to make room, but whatever. I've got this. I'm great. I mean, I'm muggle born, so surely that'll give me an advantage right?

RIGHT?

Also, I notice that the night after the test I will be pulling an all nighter in order to get to New York. I'm glad and all that we're going there, but I am not pretty without sleep. At All.

But perhaps by then I'll be used to it, on account of having not slept any in an entire month due to studying. Because I just scanned a page from one of them, and this junk is SPECIFIC. It was talking about the exact function of an oven. Like, with the science and everything. If my mother doesn't know how to work the microwave, what on earth gives this book the impression that I am able to work an _oven_? Much less understand its technical terms?

I'm sorry first year boy, but I must leave you now. The others have read their letters and share my anguish. The temptation to complain with them is too great. Frank and Remus are already on their way to the front of the room to try and squeeze some information out of McGonagall. Between the lot of us, I'm sure we can get a good study plan mapped out by the end of the night.

Hell, if not, I'll go switch tables and pump information from Severus.

If that is not desperation, then for the life of me I do not know what is.


End file.
